


You're Every Part of Me

by chalantness



Category: Aquaman (2018), DCU
Genre: F/M, Post-Aquaman (2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 04:24:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17717990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalantness/pseuds/chalantness
Summary: His smile softens, concern touching the edges once more as he lifts a hand to cup her cheek. “Still feeling nauseous?”“No. I’m alright now.” She leans into his touch, turning to brush a kiss to his palm and murmur against his skin, “But a bath sounds perfect.”





	You're Every Part of Me

**Author's Note:**

> "Here are some prompt ideas for aquamera! Maybe Arthur and Mera doing each others hair? Or both of them taking a shower after an exhausting mission on the surface, nothing sexual just both of them hugging each other and being grateful for returning safely and having each other to hold ^^" requested by an anon
> 
> I ended up with something that feels tonally different from the original prompt, but I hope you still like it, anon! I loved getting to write something so domestic and tender between them.

Having lived her entire life under water, it’s easy to forget that, once upon a time, their bodies _had_ been made for the surface—for fresh air, and the gentle press of gravity weighing her down. She adapted to the change in her balance and momentum of her first steps as simply as the first time she’d ever breathed air, and with that, it was easy to forget that her body wasn’t actually accustomed to being on land. Easy to forget that there were more fatiguing effects the surface might have on her other than a little nausea.

She’s barely two steps into their hotel room before she feels herself sway, her vision blurring as she blindly braces a hand outward against the wall to steady herself.

“Whoa, hey,” Arthur murmurs behind her, his large hands sliding over her waist to grip her with a gentle squeeze, and she lets her body melt against his as he pulls her back against his chest. His lips brush her temple as she closes her eyes and swallows, trying to will the ground to stop spinning from under her feet. “Talk to me,” he says, his plea gruff and gentle all at once as one of his hands sweep over her, pressing against her forehead to gauge her temperature, then dropping to her injured shoulder to trace the wound she received in their tangle with the strange creatures that Arthur’s surface friends antagonized. Whatever they were, they’d been capable of puncturing Atlantean skin.

“I’m fine,” she mumbles, turning to press her forehead against the curve of his neck. “Just a little light-headed.”

His chest rumbles in a low chuckle. “Yeah, this is probably the longest you’ve ever had to breathe such poisoned air,” he says, voice light with his teasing, though she knows that if she opens her eyes, she’d find his eyebrows pinched together and his eyes flickering in concern.

That’s the thing about Arthur that she’s come to adore just as much as she admires—his every emotion swim in those mesmerizing eyes of his, his every expression bright and clear on his face. Try as he might, he’s a terribly open book. He may be able to play things off to an extent when need be, but he prefers not to. And as someone who learned at an early age to wield her composure and her charm in calculated measures, it’s… _refreshing_. To not have to guess. To not have to be wary of his intentions. Some may criticize him for being too passionate, too governed by his emotion, but it’s exactly what makes him a great king. The people of Atlantis have come to love it about him, and so has she.

“And the gravity,” she reminds as his arms wrap around her, warm and sturdy, and she hums softly as she tips her head back against his shoulder. “It’s different up here.”

His body shakes in a quiet laugh. “Need me to carry you?”

A smile tugs at her lips as she exhales a laugh of her own. “Don’t tempt me, _my king_.”

The title draws the playful groan of exasperation she’d intended it to, making her smile widen, and then she lets out a soft yelp of surprise when, in one swift motion, he has his arms tucked under her to sweep her up with ease. Her arms wrap around his neck on instinct to steady herself, and she finds her face only inches away from his, that endearing and mischievous grin on his face as he arches an eyebrow at her. “Leave it to _my queen_ to be sassy with me even when she looks like she’s about to puke her guts,” he laughs.

She wrinkles her nose at his words. “Eloquently put,” she remarks. And, simply to poke more fun, she adds, “and technically, I’m not a queen. Not yet.”

He tips his head as he makes a noise of agreement, walking them across their suite and into the large bathroom, and he sets her atop the granite countertop before flicking on the light. She flinches at its sudden brightness, though nothing compares to the brightness of the smile on Arthur’s face as he gazes at her.

“True. I haven’t even proposed to you yet.”

The thought makes her chuckle. “You don’t need to. I was betrothed to the king of Atlantis, and with Orm gone, that alliance now falls to you.”

He pauses to glower at her, just as he always does when he brings up his brother, especially in relation to her. “I thought we agreed not to talk about that,” he grumbles as he turns away from her, leaning over the tub to twist the water on. Over his shoulder, he adds, “and that doesn’t count.”

This makes her pause. “Our marriage won’t count?” she asks, not _hurt_ , but confused nonetheless.

“Not what I was talking about.” She can hear the amusement in his voice as he shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it carelessly to the floor, then reaches over his shoulder to grab his shirt in his fist, tugging it off and over his head.

And, not for the first time, she finds herself drawn to the intricate designs inked into his skin, stretching and coiling around the broad expanse of his back. The patterns are both jagged yet fluid, reminding her of scales and also of armor as they wrap around the dips of his muscles, as if they’d grown to become part of him.

Then he turns to walk back to her, oblivious to her staring, or maybe simply used to it by now. She finds herself pausing to watch him quite often, for one reason or another—admiring his easy charisma with the people of Atlantis, or surprised by the quiet but firm way he commands his royal court, or simply because she _wants_ to. Because, despite what she’d told Arthur before about duty versus want, she’s discovered that she can balance both with him. With Orm, their personal relationship had been overshadowed by the politics and agendas of their alliance, manipulated by her dedication to her people. But with Arthur, their betrothal had been severed from all of those complicated strings.

Her love of her duty had grown _because_ of her love for Arthur, and with that, her life carried a kind of warmth and lightness that hadn’t been there before.

A warmth that flutters in her chest in this very moment as Arthur slips under the edge of her shirt, finding the smooth, soft skin of her stomach and splaying his fingers over it. She shivers lightly, leaning into his touch.

“I’m talking about the proposal part,” he says, finally answering her question as his hands start pushing her shirt up her torso, exposing her skin. “You deserve a _real_ one.”

“Stop trying to distract me,” she interrupts with a playful shove at his chest. “I’m too tired to have sex with you right now.”

A laugh bursts from him, echoing in the small space of the bathroom, and perhaps part of her would’ve had the sense to be offended if not for the pure delight and amusement in his eyes as he tugs her shirt up higher. She complies, lifting her arms so he can pull it off, and he drops it to the floor. “And you think I’m _not?_ I was out there getting my ass handed to me just like everyone else until you and Diana finally came in with the save.” Eyes twinkling, his smile grows a little wider as he adds, “I’m not an animal, you know.”

She rolls her eyes, her lips twitching as she tries in vain to fight off a smile of her own. “I seem to remember you boasting the contrary to your friends the other night.”

He grins, unapologetic. “Yeah, well, right now I just want a warm soak. Maybe that’ll help take the edge off.” His smile softens, concern touching the edges once more as he lifts a hand to cup her cheek. “Still feeling nauseous?”

“No. I’m alright now.” She leans into his touch, turning to brush a kiss to his palm and murmur against his skin, “But a bath sounds perfect.”

“Atta girl,” he says, tapping her hip, and she complies as she slides off of the counter and onto her feet. She lets him strip away the clothes that Diana had leant her, then he rids himself of his jeans, steps out of his shoes and then turns to twist the faucet off. Water sloshes over the edge of the tub and onto the tiles as he settles in, but the tub must be deeper and wider than it looks, because he settles comfortably inside. Then he holds his hand out and she grasps onto him for balance as she climbs in after him, tingles quickly spreading over her skin as she sinks into the steaming hot water, and the relief it has on her muscles is almost instant as she settles across from him with a soft sigh.

“ _This_ ritual of yours is almost worth the trouble it takes to be on land,” she says as she lets herself sink all the way in, until the water just barely touches her chin.

Arthur chuckles, his hand curving under her calf in the water to lift her leg, and then he takes her foot in both hands, gently but firmly pressing his thumbs into her sole and drawing a soft moan of content from her lips. His eyes twinkle. “Don’t forget about _this_ ritual.”

She hums, eyelashes fluttering as he massages away the ache in her foot that she hadn’t realized was there. “Oh, I certainly hadn’t.”

He chuckles again, then lets the sound fade into the comfortable quiet of the air between them. She leans her head back against the edge of the tub, her eyelashes fluttering but not quite closing completely as she holds Arthur’s gaze, his fingers working over the bottom of her foot in gentle presses before sliding higher, kneading at the tension in her calves, then higher up her thigh. She makes a noise from the back of her throat, earning a twitch of his lips, and then he sets her leg down and starts again with her other foot.

“See?” he says after a few quiet moments, kneading at the side of her thigh, working over a tender spot with the pad of his thumb. “It’s not so bad up here on land.”

“It has its charms,” she admits, lifting her hand out of the steaming water to runs her fingertips over the edge of the tub. “You know, I don’t _hate_ the surface.” She says it simply, not trying to be defensive, and he nods like he understands.

“I know.” His lips twitch at the edges, tugging in a grin. “But don’t think I forgot how vocal you’ve been about not _liking_ it, either.”

She laughs softly as she pulls her leg back, moving forward onto her knees to bring herself closer to him. He taps her hip gently and she complies, turning herself as gracefully as she can in the small space, settling between his legs with her back to him. He reaches for a bottle perched on the edge of the tub, uncaps it to squirt a dollop of liquid in his palm, and then his hands are in her hair, fingers gently massaging at her scalp as he lathers her in suds. She hums, leaning back into his touch. She remembers the first time he’d done this to her, in his small bathroom in his childhood home by the lighthouse—how small and simple the gesture was, yet it had been one of the most intimate things she ever felt. His affection is always so open and impulsive, almost absent, like he’s touched her this way their entire lives, and it’s entirely unlike any affection she’d ever received.

But where she expects there to be hesitance on her part in receiving it, there _isn’t_. She’d adapted to it as easily as she’d breathed air, and she finds herself craving it more and more each day.

He takes his time rinsing the soap from her hair, then grabs a different bottle, making her gasp slightly as he squirts the cold liquid directly onto her skin this time. His hands are warm and calloused as he starts rubbing it over her skin, working more of the tension from her muscles as he washes her.

“You know,” she says, turning her head to peer at him over her shoulder, “you never _did_ explain what you meant by giving me a proper proposal.”

A smile tugs at his lips, his eyes warm and bright. “Well, for starters, an arranged marriage doesn’t count as a proposal. Not up here in on land, anyway.”

She gives him a playful look. “I think the arranged marriage is more of a _royal_ thing than an _Atlantean_ thing.” Turning her head forward again, she leans away slightly, giving him better access as his hands work lower down her spine to the small of her back. “There are actually quite a few similarities between human and Atlantean culture that survived despite how different we’ve always been, even before Atlantis sank to the bottom of the ocean. You just happen to have met me first, and I’m not exactly _normal_.”

“Lucky for me,” he says with a laugh, his arms suddenly wrapping around her waist from behind and pulling her back against his chest, spilling water over the edge of the tub with the sudden motion. He kisses her temple and then buries his face in her wet hair, making her smile. “Any _normal_ girl wouldn’t have put up with me for this long.”

His words, simple as they are, make her feel tingly and light. “I was doing my duty, which unfortunately now includes you,” she teases. His chest vibrates against her back in a low, rumbling laugh, and she tips her head to the side to look at him, smiling.

His amused expression softens at the edges, turning contemplative. “I would’ve been tempted to do something big and flashy, just to embarrass you in public,” he tells her with a breathy sort of laugh. “But you would want something simple and quiet. Just the two of us, like this, so you know that it’s from _me_ and not from some _king_.”

“You _are_ a king, Arthur,” she points out, running her fingers along the scruff of hair along his jaw. It’s not as smooth and soft as it is under water, but she finds that she likes the texture of it against her skin. “But that doesn’t make anything you do less sincere.” She gazes into his light eyes, finding them open and eager. “In fact, you are the most genuine person I’ve ever met. And if you wanted to make some royal declaration of our betrothal, I would still believe it came from your heart. Though don’t get any bright ideas,” she adds when his lips twitch at the corners, his eyes practically gleaming in mischief. “I will not be made a spectacle for your amusement, even if you are my king.”

He feigns a noise of disappointment. “You’re no fun.”

She rolls her eyes, smiling as she tangles her fingers in his long hair. “Simple and quiet sounds quite lovely, actually,” she admits, voice softer now. In Atlantis, despite being betrothed, there are days where she barely sees him. They get pulled in so many directions, and she finds herself wanting nothing but to be shut away in their bedroom, just the two of them enjoying each other’s company as they are right now. It had felt selfish at first for her to want something like that, but she doesn’t see it that way anymore.

“Yeah,” he agrees, brushing another kiss to her temple. “It does.”

They lapse into another comfortable quiet as he continues washing her, and then she turns around in his arms to return the favor, laughing softly when he starts to pepper her neck and her face with kisses, attempting to distract her as she works the soap over his skin.

Eventually he stands, pulling her up with him, and wraps her in a soft towel before she steps out of the tub. Her every muscle feels tired, though not in the aching way it had before they’d gotten into the bath, so she doesn’t protest when Arthur decides that he wants to dry her off himself. He gently wrings the water from her hair, moving the towel in soft strokes over her skin, and then he leads her back into the room, pulls one of his large shirts over her head and draws the covers on the bed back for her to climb into.

Her eyes are practically closed when he climbs in beside her, and she feels him draw her body close, starting to work a brush through her hair in gentle strokes. The steady, repetitive motion nearly lulls her to sleep, then loosely twists her hair into a braid over her shoulder.

He nudges her shoulder, guiding her to lay down, but she shakes her head as she turns to face him, holding her hand out. He chuckles as he places the brush in her palm before turning to let her brush his hair, too, her fingers gently massaging at his scalp as she works the tangles out of his wild locks.

When he speaks again, his voice is low and gravelly, and the touch of—not _hesitance_ , but something almost similar, makes her pause when he says her name.

He pauses, long enough for her to set the brush down and grasp his chin, gently turning his face toward hers. “Arthur?” she prompts softly.

Meeting her gaze seems to give him the reassurance he needs, because his smile is warm and bright and so very _hopeful_ that it makes her smile, too, even before he says the words, “Will you marry me?”

She holds his gaze, her stomach fluttering. She takes his face with both of her hands and presses her lips to his, gentle but firm, making a soft noise from the back of her throat as his hand cups the back of her head and draws her closer, kissing her just a little bit harder. “Yes,” she breathes against his lips, kissing him again, and again.

He chuckles lowly, arm wrapping around her, and she feels him tip her gently back against the bed as his body comes over hers, large and warm, drowning out the rest of the world until it’s just him and her and their simple, quiet moment.


End file.
